


All that's dead and gone and passed tonight

by elareine



Series: Advent Calendar 2019 [9]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Blood and Injury, Child Death, Guess who's the tribute, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Revenge, Victors/Mentors Bruce and Dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21635551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elareine/pseuds/elareine
Summary: “I don’t think we will see another District 12 champion this year, Bruto.”“No, Caesar, it certainly doesn’t look that way. Pity, the boy scored quite high during the athletics, but he lacks a certain amount of… shall we say glamour?”
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne, Roy Harper/Jason Todd (side)
Series: Advent Calendar 2019 [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558834
Comments: 4
Kudos: 74





	All that's dead and gone and passed tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Advent calendar day nine: Hunger Games AU. 
> 
> Please mind the warnings on this one. I changed some things about the setting, as you'll notice, but honestly, just apply every warning of the books here.

_“I don’t think we will see another District 12 champion this year, Bruto.”_

_“No, Caesar, it certainly doesn’t look that way. Pity, the boy scored quite high during the athletics, but he lacks a certain amount of… shall we say glamour?”_

_“Well, I would have called him a rough-and-tumble street rat, but we can go with lacking glamour.”_

Laughter. 

_“Just another example of the curious contradictions our glorious country produces. Last year, District 12 sent us a diamond; this year… coal.“_

“Turn that off.” Bruce’s voice was harsh. 

Last year, Dick would have taken it as a sign that his mentor was angry at him. Now, a mentor himself, he marveled at Bruce’s restraint.

The silence was almost worse. As victors, they had access to the cameras clandestinely following their charge-of-the-year around. For now, Jason was clinging onto the top of the rock he was using for shelter, disturbed by nothing but the quiet singing of the birds. 

There was a redhead slumped next to him, only held up by Jason’s arm around him. The wound in his shoulder was rapidly becoming infected, Dick knew—an injury he had incurred defending Jason.

He and Bruce had met up with the mentors from District 7. If Jason would not leave Roy behind, they had to try to get Roy enough help that they stood a fighting chance. Even combined, however, their resources had not been enough to send more than a bottle of clean water into the arena. 

Another camera showed the pack of chimera wolves headed their way. It wouldn’t be long until the birds stopped singing, too. 

Dick would not permit himself to look away until it was over, and beyond, until he had witnessed every single crime that was committed on these young boys’ bodies. 

Roy had been his age, barely one year away from aging out of the pool of potential tributes at eighteen. 

Jason had only been thirteen. 

Even if—even if they had made it through this, there was no way both of them could have survived. They had known that; Roy’s mentors had known that. And still Jason had decided on that little bit of humanity. 

He had heard a rumor, Dick’s brain reminded him, that they would increase the numbers of tributes per district to two next year. 

Two people. They would need to do this for two people. 

There would be no hope left. 

Oh, god. Jason. 

There was a noise like a wounded animal, and then Bruce was there, pulling Dick into his arms. Dick sank into them gratefully even as his mind was still grappling with reality. 

He thought of these old pictures of Bruce; a serious-faced boy with neat black hair that had somehow just bested the last co-tribute, staring at the camera with blood on his hands and not an ounce of triumph on his face. 

For the last year, this had been an image that had haunted Dick almost as much as his own experiences in the arena. Today, he would’ve given anything to see it repeated. 

Bruce didn’t know what to do. 

He had been alone for so long in this. His own mentor had died the year after Bruce’s victory. As much as he appreciated the comfort—he did, more than he could ever express—he would have given anything for Dick to be spared this. Wasn’t it enough that they sent kids into the arena every year? Why did the survivors have to be the ones to perpetuate the cycle?

It was probably a good thing Dick chose that moment to pull away from his embrace. The last time Bruce had had this kind of thought, the capitol had taken his family. 

“We need to do better,” Dick told him furiously. “Get a better stylist, a better _story_. Mythologize our next tribute.” 

They had done all that. It was just that Jason’s story was one that no one at the capitol wanted to hear. And even if you had a strong fighter, a kid that everyone loved—sometimes, it just came down to the luck of the draw. 

“I never found out what Alfred did to keep me alive,” Bruce offered instead of saying all that. “Even if they’d liked me, no one believed in me. I don’t know how to do what he did. You were my miracle.” 

Something in Dick’s expression fractured, and he charged forward to kiss Bruce.

It felt wrong. Nothing could distract Bruce from how he had failed Jason, how he’d seen the boy die, and he shouldn’t even try. Still, it was better than having to watch Dick go through the same emotions when he wasn’t to blame, not a bit. 

The kiss was closer to pain than to pleasure, anyway; too much force and too much salt. When it broke, they were both crying. 

“There has to be something we can do,” Dick whispered almost silently, “we need to change this.” 

_Even if it kills you?_ Bruce wanted to ask. He didn’t. It was not a question to ask a victor. 

He regarded his partner. Even now, wracked by grief, Dick was beautiful. There was no escaping that fact anymore—that and his acrobat skills had been what secured him so many sponsors last year. 

Bruce had been desperately trying to protect him from the other things the capitol made beautiful victors do. After this year, he doubted he would have enough sway to make it stop. 

In comparison to what he witnessed today, _had been witnessing_ for fifteen years now, even that thought paled. And that realization, that slow acceptance of the horrors of the system, was what caused Bruce to throw caution to the wind and say: “We have to.” 

“We will,” Dick vowed and kissed him again. His hands on Bruce’s shoulders were clutching tightly enough to hurt. 

Bruce held onto him, onto his kiss, and tried to believe it. 

It took seven years, but when the capitol burned, Bruce made sure to bring Jason’s picture so he could see it. 


End file.
